


The Worst Day

by Anonymous



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canonical Suicide Attempt, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Failed Suicide Attempt, Gen, Gun Violence, Hurt No Comfort, Minor Character Death, Pre-Avengers (2012), Self-Hatred, Suicide Attempt, misuse of gun safety rules
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-29
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:34:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25595854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: "I put a bullet in my mouth, the Other Guy spit it back out"Bruce's suicide attempt.
Kudos: 3
Collections: Anonymous





	The Worst Day

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Euphemism](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23711773) by Anonymous. 



> I can't make this a series and stay anonymous but this is a companion piece to my other anon fic, linked as "inspired by". The other one is much more optimistic.
> 
> (might edit later to fix double-line-breaks to actual paragraph breaks but it shouldn't affect readability)

Bruce was lying naked on the forest floor. Again. He could tell that much even without opening his eyes. He listened carefully, trying to discern what state the world around him was in. The ambient sounds of animals were still present, so the Other Guy must not have wrecked the place too badly.  
  
Importantly, Bruce didn't hear the sounds of terrified humans that would panic and attack him for suddenly moving, so he opened his eyes, and cautiously propped himself upright.  
  
Bruce found himself on the edge of a recently-torn up clearing. On the far side was an unmoving figure in US Army camouflage. When he spotted it, the memory came rushing back, of the four soldiers that had broken into his house overnight. The Other Guy had come out almost immediately at the threat, before Bruce had quite processed what was going on.  
  
And now he was here, naked and missing time, and staring across at... a body. Bruce wasn't sure if he was more scared that the soldier was dead - that he had killed someone - or that the soldier was still alive and would attack him again.  
  
As much as both options horrified him, he had to be sure what he was running from.  
  
He cautiously approached the figure, circling around the edges of the clearing rather than walking straight through. This way, it was easier to disappear into the trees if he needed to. Not necessarily possible depending on the soldiers’ training, but easier to attempt.  
  
When he got close, he still couldn't see signs of life. Couldn't hear any labored breathing. He crept closer, cautious and ready to bolt at the slightest sign of aggression. If the Other Guy would let him, that is.  
  
This close, he could see the scrapes and contusions across the soldier's face, and the damage to their uniform. It looked like the nearest uprooted tree had been broken across their face.  
  
Bruce crept closer. The soldier didn't even twitch. Even closer, and he should have been able to see the subtle rise and fall of the soldier's chest, but he didn't. He felt for a pulse, pressing two fingers firmly against the soldier's carotid artery.  
  
Nothing.  
  
He had killed them.  
  
From here, with his hand already on their neck, it was easy to tell it was broken, the vertebrae pressing against their skin in all the wrong places.  
  
Bruce didn't appreciate the effort put into kidnapping him, or the waves of soldiers sent after him but he didn't want to _kill_ people. He didn't want to prove the Army's aggression necessary.  
  
The soldier in front of him was little more than a child. Probably recruited fresh out of high school. Were they even old enough to drink?  
  
He knew the chances of the army actually retrieving the soldier's body from an obscure patch of forest was slim to none. He gently shut their eyes, which did nothing to disguise the violence inflicted on their face, and hesitantly fished out their tags from under their uniform.  
  
Austin Woodward.  
  
“I'm sorry, Austin,” Bruce whispered, trying to swallow the rising wave of self-loathing, which too easily grew into anger. “You didn't deserve to die like this.” He was probably just following orders. Bruce couldn't imagine the army was briefing the soldiers properly on what they were trying to capture, otherwise only the most battle-hardened warriors would be willing to come after him. “You didn't deserve to be sent after me.”  
  
He tucked Austin's tags back under his collar, just in case, and sat back, scanning the area for other threats.  
  
All the sights and sounds were what he would expect from the forest, and there wasn't an obvious trail of destruction to follow back to civilization, nor any sign of the other three soldiers. He held on to the flimsy hope that he had just lost the others in the woods, that he hadn't killed them all.  
  
Without letting himself think too hard about what he was doing, Bruce took the handgun from the holster at Austin's hip.  
  
It had been a long time since he had handled a weapon, but the basics of handling a weapon safely had been drilled into him.  
  
He pointed the gun down and away as he inspected it. _Never point a gun at anything you don't intend to shoot_. If the weapon fired unexpectedly, the bullet would disappear safely into the loose pile of dirt that had been pulled up along with the tree.  
  
It was a Glock, exactly the same model Betty had shared at the range for him to practice with.  
  
That had been a long time ago.  
  
_Always assume it's loaded. Don't trust the saf_ _ety_. Bruce thumbed the safety off, then back on, and checked the chamber anyway. There was a round loaded. He shook the bullet out into his hand, and let the slide ram home. He winced at the noise, ejected the magazine and set the gun aside, still pointing away.  
  
The magazine was half-empty. The other bullets had probably been spent on _him_. Bruce carefully thumbed the round from the chamber back into the magazine, then slid the magazine back into the gun.  
  
Bruce stood up slowly, warily, holding the grip of the gun with all five fingers. _Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to fire._ He was very determinedly _not_ thinking about the implications of... any part of today, really.  
  
  
It was hard to tell which direction he'd come from, because the clearing with trees ripped up was so much worse than the rest of the forest, but when he looked closely, he could tell where branches were bending back almost but not quite into their original positions, after having been rammed aside by a large... thing crashing through. He debated going the other way, disappearing into the woods, but he didn't feel like gambling on finding a convenient clothesline to pilfer, and he at least needed pants. Preferably also shoes. He stepped into the shadows, carefully following his own trail back towards the tiny village he had been staying near.  
  
Bruce didn't find any other bodies along the way, and no one jumped him, but he didn't dare to hope that the other soldiers had survived _and_ were suddenly deciding to leave him alone.  
  
When he got back to the place he'd been staying - not “home,” it was never _home_ \- he quickly got dressed and bundled up his most portable belongings, money, food, and bottled water, into a worn but sturdy backpack. He picked up the gun again, and ejected the magazine, then checked the chamber - _always assume it's loaded_ \- which was still empty. He put the two pieces into opposite corners of his small backpack and swung it onto his back. This town wasn't safe for him anymore.  
  
Bruce walked out of the village, following the road east until dirt gave way to gravel, and then turned north, disappearing into the trees instead. He didn't know where he was going besides “away,” he never did, but maybe one day that lack of intention would finally become too difficult for the army to keep up with, and he would finally be left alone.  
  
He hiked for most of the day leaving as little trace of his passing as possible, and managed not to think about anything besides putting one foot in front of the other. When the sky started to dim, he looked for a cave to shelter in overnight, and found instead a patch of trees so dense that the bark of a couple of the largest trees was starting to melt together, forming a sort of wall that he could lay against. Good enough.  
  
He sat against one of the smaller trees and ate a miserable dinner of dried fruit, followed by a few sips of water. There was no telling where he would next find a source of clean water, so he was trying to ration what he had.  
  
Now that he wasn't moving, Bruce couldn't _stop_ thinking.  
  
Before now, Bruce always had to _infer_ the trouble he was in and how much damage he had caused, but today he had killed someone. He had woken up to some unfortunate kid's dead body, dead for the mistake of following orders to hunt a _monster_.  
  
The sky was persistently dimming, and the sounds of the animals were changing, the birds quieting in favor of the chitter of bats. Bruce could barely see his toes, but he didn't dare light a fire. That could attract attention, from predators _or_ from the army, neither of which he wanted.  
  
Running like this was miserable. He was always alone, always in fear, always living on the edge of starvation because he couldn't settle enough to grow his own food or participate in society.  
  
He pulled the gun, and the magazine out of his bag.  
  
He was a monster. A monster that destroyed cities and killed people, given half a chance.  
  
Maybe it would be better....  
  
It would be _efficient_ for him to die, to take the monster inside his skin with him.  
  
One life wasn't such a sacrifice. Bruce wasn't even sure right now that it was a sacrifice at all.  
  
He slid the magazine home, feeling numb as it clicked into place.  
  
_Always assume it's loaded_. Bruce habitually checked the chamber again, empty, and then cocked the gun to pull a round up into the chamber. It was definitely loaded now. He thumbed the safety off.  
  
_Never point a gun at anything you don't intend to shoot._ He turned the gun around slowly, until he was staring down the barrel, holding the grip backwards with both hands. He wouldn't quite admit to himself what he was doing, but he wasn't exactly trying _not_ to shoot himself.  
  
It was better this way. Better that he couldn't hurt anyone, and that the army couldn't kidnap him and somehow force him to do even worse damage.  
  
The gun was a comforting weight in his hands. It was the only thing he could feel.  
  
Bruce opened his mouth, slowly, and raised the gun closer until it was resting on his tongue. The cold weight of the barrel would have made him gag on its own, but the taste of gunpowder made him gag worse. He pulled the gun away, and coughed until the sensation faded. Gunpowder still burned, acrid, on his tongue.  
  
This was for the best, to get rid of the monster inside him.  
  
Bruce was so _tired_ of running.  
  
He had killed someone today.  
  
He deserved this.  
  
He brought the gun back to his mouth and carefully wrapped his lips around it, pointing the barrel up just enough that it wasn't weighing his tongue down, though he still couldn't escape the taste and feel of the cold metal between his teeth.  
  
Up was better anyway. Better chance of hitting something critical in the brain than aiming straight back at the smaller target that was the brain stem.  
  
_Keep your finger off the trigger until you're ready to shoot_. His pointer finger wouldn't work at this angle, the trigger needed to be pulled _away_ from his face. He felt for the trigger with his thumb, holding the gun steady with his other hand, and slid his thumb inside the guard.  
  
He must be cold. His hand was trembling. All of him was trembling. He wrapped the fingers of his trigger hand back around the grip, for stability and leverage.  
  
Bruce leaned back against the tree and took a deep breath, as much as he could around the gun. As he let it out, he

 _squeezed_  
  
...  
  
He shouldn't have remembered the following moments - he shouldn't have _had_ any following moments - but it seemed the Other Guy was absolutely _livid_ with him and had decided this was how to punish him after their energy ran out and they couldn't keep up the transformation: by sharing memories that normally would have stayed separate.  
  
Bruce could remember all too clearly: the transformation ripping through him faster than usual and the bullet bouncing off the roof of his mouth, hardly even as painful as the bite of a horsefly to his smaller, human self. A mere annoyance. His tongue shoved the bullet between his teeth and he _crunched_ , crushing the bullet on one side of his mouth and the barrel on the other, before he spit both out. The bullet disappeared into the weeds, while he crushed the gun in his hands and pulled it apart into mangled pieces, which were also swiftly cast aside, abandoned and forgotten along with the rest of their more useful supplies.  
  
He had stayed transformed for almost three days, making an absolute wreck of the forest, drawing the attention of the Army again, and literally tearing a tank open to bellow at the soldiers inside before throwing them each individually over the trees to land elsewhere in the forest, and tossing the tank itself back the direction it had come from.  
  
Second only to Bruce himself, the other guy seemed to be furious at the Army for making Bruce feel as awful as he had.  
  
But right now he didn't have the energy to be angry. He was exhausted and hungry and naked and cold and miserable. He didn't have food or money or supplies.  
  
And the sun was going down.  
  
Bruce curled up into a ball to conserve heat, and couldn't stem the utterly humiliated, _devastated_ tears at his own failure.  
  
He couldn't even _die_ properly to protect the innocent. He really was a monster.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm okay but people in my life are not. I can't do anything to help but listen and vent my triggers into fic so I can keep listening


End file.
